Traitor's Court
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: Mysterious deaths, unexplained accidents… Our boys are on the job. And everything seems normal… Until it isn't. Could be set anytime after "Like a Virgin". Casefic and eventual H/C.
1. A Hazardous Profession

**Author's Note:** This is my first serious attempt at casefic… So I don't know how well it works as a hunt. And of course, me being me, by the end of the story it's more schmoop than anything.

To everyone to whom I owe review replies: I blame the website. ;-) It's not letting me send any messages. I'll get to them as soon as I can.

Thanks to Cheryl for all the help!

**Summary:** Mysterious deaths, unexplained accidents… Our boys are on the job. And everything seems normal… Until it isn't. Could be set anytime after _Like a Virgin_.

* * *

><p><strong>Traitor's Court<strong>

**Chapter I: A Hazardous Profession**

When Dean woke up, he knew there was something different. Not wrong, not dangerous, just… _different_. It was a moment before he figured out what it was: Sam's breathing. It was slow, deep, even –

Sam was _asleep_. And he wasn't having nightmares.

Dean smiled up at the ceiling. Soulless Sam had never slept, and after the re-souling Sam had gone back to being the nightmare-prone insomniac he had been since Jessica's death. It had been years since Dean had heard anything from Sam's bed other than tossing and turning and soft sobs into cheap motel pillows. To hear Sam sleeping _peacefully_…

It was surprising, because Sam had been moodier than usual since the incident with the ear worm – and had met all inquiries with, "I'm bloody _fine_, Dean, now shut the hell up!" Dean wasn't complaining, though. He'd take anything he could get.

Dean slipped out of bed. He shivered. It was a chilly morning in Maine, and the motel blankets were threadbare.

He dressed quickly. Since he was up, he might as well get breakfast. If he could find Sam one of his low-cal girl-drinks, it might cheer him up enough to make him decent company for a few hours.

He paused only long enough to grab the sheets from his own bed and drop them over Sam – although he doubted they'd do much good – before he grabbed the keys from the nightstand and went out.

He was back in less than half an hour. It was a small town and there hadn't been much, but he'd found a place with some health food that wouldn't clog Sam's arteries and grabbed a bag of donuts for himself. There hadn't been cinnamon or caramel or any of the other crap Sam liked to ruin his coffee with, but he'd scored some decaf. It ought to keep his little brother happy.

Sam was stirring under his cocoon of blankets.

Dean watched for a moment, irresistibly reminded of a much younger Sammy waking up in any number of nameless motel rooms. Finally he said, "Rise and shine, princess. Daylight's wasting."

Sam blinked sleepily up at him.

"Time's it?"

"Eight. You overslept, Samantha. I had to do the breakfast run."

"Sorry."

"Don't be stupid." Dean sighed. "You needed the sleep. You need _more_ sleep, but we have a job to do."

"Nine people dead and number ten due at midnight tonight unless we stop it," Sam affirmed, pushing himself up.

"Yeah, and we know jack about what's going on, so good luck to us. Seriously, Sam, you think we should take a break after this?"

"You want a break?"

"We could use one. Tell you what, let's wrap this up today, then tomorrow I'll hustle some pool, make us enough for some _nice_ motel where the furniture doesn't have vegetation on it, and we can spend a week drinking beer and – I don't know – hustling more pool? We can even pick a town with a library so you can go do your wussified upstairs-brain thing."

Sam's laughter didn't reach his eyes.

* * *

><p>Four hours later, Dean didn't feel like laughing either. Nine people had died, and they seemed to have nothing in common other than the manner of their deaths. There were five men and four women, ranging in age from twenty to sixty-three, and they included an accountant, two waiters, a carpenter, a doctor, a construction worker, a lawyer, a fireman, and the head of the local police department. Three Christians, two Jews, a Buddhist, a Scientologist and two Atheists.<p>

Each of them had died of seizures that had begun on the stroke of midnight. Three people had died before medical aid could reach them, four in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and two had been lost on the table. The doctors hadn't been able to determine causes for the seizures: there had been no blood clots, no haemorrhaging, nothing unusual. Nine apparently healthy people (except for one case of a mild peanut allergy) had simply died.

That – in other words, big fat _nothing_ – was what Dean had found out from chatting with the local sheriff and coroner. He had gone to see the one body that was still in the hospital morgue, but that had been a washout too.

Meanwhile, Sam was making the rounds of family visits. Normally they wouldn't have separated. Quite apart from Dean's inherent instinct – stronger than ever now – to protect Sam, he _liked _seeing Sam puppy-dog his way into people's houses. It was a form of entertainment all by itself. But they didn't have much time. It was noon now, giving them twelve hours before whatever it was decided to claim victim number ten.

Dean pulled out his cell phone and pressed the first speed dial.

"_This is Sam. Leave a message._"

Dean scowled. He hadn't heard a word from Sam since they'd parted ways three and a half hours ago. Dean had left at least six messages for his brother in that time, with every single thing he'd found out. Sam was probably just too busy to check his voicemail, but still…

"Still got freaking _nothing_, Sam. I'm going to pick up lunch and head back to the motel. Maybe Wikipedia will tell us what the hell this is."

The diner nearest the coroner's office was small but clean. Dean ordered two cheeseburgers to go, with a cappuccino for Sammy and a double shot of espresso for himself. The waitress who brought the food was very pretty and very eager, leaning forward to give him his bill and drawling, "So who's the other one for?"

"My little brother," Dean said, smiling. "He gets hungry."

"Well, I hope you're keeping an eye on him. This town hasn't been safe for little brothers and little sisters lately."

"What are you talking about?" Dean demanded, heart pounding.

It couldn't be their case – he'd been through the records, and a few of the victims had older siblings, but not all of them. He would've noticed – he might not be as good a researcher as Sam, but he would have noticed something like that.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to worry you. I'm sure your brother's fine."

"_What are you talking about?_"

The waitress shrugged. "My friend Martha's little brother vanished a few nights ago. Turned up in the morning scared out of his wits, and he won't say a word about what happened to him. And the high school principal's younger sister – she had a bad accident, broke three ribs and her right leg."

"That's it?"

"There's been more. All different things, car accidents, allergic reactions, falls. A few people have died – nobody I know, but in a place like this, word gets around."

"And there's nothing in the papers about it?"

"Well, they don't want to cause a panic, do they? Everyone's already on edge because of those seizures – they're saying it could be some kind of bioterrorism. Everyone's suspicious of everyone. And really, this is probably nothing – just one of those random things that happens sometimes, right?"

"Right," Dean said, although every instinct he had was screaming. In his experience, _nothing_ was nothing. Not for them.

"Um… Thanks. I'd better go."

"Sure. Don't worry about your brother. I'm sure he's fine."

_Yeah, right. Bloody Sam bloody never fine even under normal circumstances… With something like _this _happening…_

Dean tried calling Sam again.

"_This is Sam. Leave a message._"

"Sam, answer the phone, damn it!"

* * *

><p>"So <em>do <em>you know what it is? Is it… Is it some kind of terrorist attack?"

"We're working on all angles, Mrs. Munroe," Sam said diplomatically. "I promise, we're doing our best to find out what's happening."

"B-but that won't help my T-t-timmy," the lady said, her eyes filling with tears. "He's g-gone."

Sam smiled sympathetically. "Thank you so much for your time, ma'am. I know how difficult this must be for you. If someone's responsible for what happened to your son, we're definitely going to bring them to justice."

He showed himself out of the apartment, stopping short when he almost knocked over an old lady standing right outside. She had obviously had her ear pressed to the door.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I didn't see –"

"She's _lying_," the old lady hissed.

"I – who?"

"You're the man from the FBI, aren't you? What do you people think this is? Anthrax?"

"I don't think anthrax causes seizures," Sam said, trying to edge past the old lady to the stairs. "We don't yet know what it is, but we're working on it. If you hear anything –"

"Aren't you listening to me? She was _lying_ to you. She told you Timothy Munroe was a wonderful boy, didn't she? Straight-A student, valedictorian, Harvard, Goldman Sachs, a perfect gentleman and a perfect son. She's either blind or she's lying through her teeth. He was – he killed my granddaughter."

"_What?_"

"Do you want a cup of tea?"

Sam hesitated, but the woman seemed harmless enough – no more than a standard neighbourhood busybody. In other words, the perfect person to give him the information that Timothy Munroe's mother couldn't – or wouldn't. He nodded and let the old woman lead him into the next apartment.

"I'm Agatha Winslow," she said, showing him a seat. "My son and daughter-in-law were killed in a plane crash twenty years ago, and my granddaughters came to live with me. Millie – she's the older one – is around your age. She lives in New York most of the time, but she comes here for long weekends when she can. And Abbie was the younger one. She was just twenty-two."

"I'm so sorry –"

"And it was all Timothy Munroe's doing! His parents have lived next door to me for thirty years and – Timothy and Millie used to date, did Mrs. Munroe tell you that?"

"No, she –"

"Well, they did. Until Timothy went to Harvard. They tried the long-distance thing, but it didn't work. By the time Timothy came back, Millie had moved to New York. Timothy lived there too, most of the time, and Millie told us they'd started seeing each other again. Then on one of his trips here to see his parents, he visited Abbie one evening when I was out."

"Ah," Sam said, squirming in his chair. He felt like he was in the middle of a bad soap opera.

"He said later Abbie had tried to make a move on him, but _she_ said otherwise, and I know my granddaughter. I know Timothy Munroe, too, the most smooth-talking conman ever to graduate from college. Of course you can guess which of them Millie believed."

"So she broke up with Timothy," Sam hazarded.

Agatha Winslow looked startled. "Have you any brothers or sisters?"

"I have an older brother."

"And you still think… You must have an unusually strong relationship with him. I don't know what you or your brother would have done, but Millie was madly, desperately infatuated, and she believed every lie Timothy told her. She never spoke to Abbie after that, not once."

Sam felt a sudden chill. "Mrs. Winslow, how did Abbie die?"

"She took a fall when she was hiking in the mountains near here. The coroner ruled it an accident and closed the case."

"But you don't believe that."

"Abbie knew those hiking trails well enough to navigate them blindfolded. And it wasn't like there had been any rain or landslides or anything else to change the terrain. It was a clear spring day."

"You think…"

"Nobody pushed her, if that's what you're suggesting," Agatha Winslow said. "Millie might have been angry, but she loved Abbie underneath it all – she would never have tried to kill her. And Timothy was too much of a coward." She paused, and there was a tremor in her voice when she spoke again. "Millie hasn't forgiven herself. I don't know if she ever will. She ended things with Timothy the next day. Three days later, Timothy died of seizures."

"He wasn't the only one."

"No. It seems to be an epidemic. But if anyone deserved it…"

* * *

><p>Sam emerged into the sunshine and checked his cell phone. Four messages, all from Dean. He listened to the first one – so Dean hadn't found much either – and then to the next three, which were increasingly urgent demands for Sam to call his brother right the hell <em>now<em>.

Sam shivered. The air seemed thick with menace. Suddenly he _really_ needed to hear his big brother's voice.

His fingers shook as he punched the button for Dean. It rang once… twice… three times… and oh, thank God, Dean was answering.

"Sammy?"

"Dean." Sam didn't even try to hide the quiver in his tone. Something was wrong – _very_ wrong, he could sense it. Like he was being watched.

"Sam, you OK? You find anything?"

"I have to talk to you."

"Yeah, me too. Can you get back to the motel on your own?"

Sam was about to say yes when he had that sense of something watching him again. He shivered and sucked in a breath. "Can you come and get me?"

* * *

><p>Dean was sure there was a speed limit, but he really didn't care. Sam had sounded <em>scared<em> on the phone, and _nothing_ was going to stand between Dean Winchester and his little brother. Especially not when "little brother" seemed to be a hazardous profession in these parts.

He reached Sam in less than five minutes, leaving several almost-accidents on the way. He heard the engine protest when he took a turn _hard_, and he muttered a silent apology. He knew his baby wouldn't hold it against him. Dean and the Impala had always had the same objective: keep Sam safe.

He spotted Sam as soon as he turned onto Fourth Street. The kid was easy to pick out of a crowd, and this street was empty except for Sam standing under a tree, looking around nervously.

"Sammy?" Dean pulled up, tires squealing. "I'm sorry, baby. I'll give you a rub-down tomorrow. Sam, are you all right? What is it?" Sam shook his head and went round to the passenger side. "Sammy? Did you get anything?"

"Maybe. I need to do some checking – talk to the others."

"Dude, you've spent all morning talking to people."

"I didn't know what questions to ask. Now I do."

There was something in Sam's tone that made Dean shoot him a sharp sideways glance. "Sam?"

"You were scared," Sam said slowly, and it was as though he was putting something together in his head. "Not the first few times you called, but after that. Someone told you something, didn't they? Younger sisters and younger brothers. Dying."

"Not all of them dying, but yeah. How do you know? Did you find out anything?"

"Timothy Munroe caused a rift between his high school sweetheart, Mildred Winslow, and her younger sister Abigail. They stopped speaking to each other. Abigail died a few days before Timothy. It went down in the records as a hiking accident but her grandmother thinks it was suicide."

"Sam –"

"I'm OK, Dean."

"The waitress at the diner told me younger siblings have been very accident-prone since the trouble started. Nobody's noticed because they've mostly been non-fatal and perfectly natural – nothing that would cause crime or mortality stats to spike. And they've all been different. And that means _you_, little brother, are staying in our motel room until we know more about what's going on. I'm taste-testing everything you eat."

"Oh, come _on_ –"

"I'm serious, Sam. We're not taking any risks."

Sam sighed. "Fine. Am I at least allowed to use my laptop?"

"Only after I've checked the room wiring."

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	2. Guilty

**Author's Note: **That got a much better reaction than I was expecting. ;-)

For the record – this isn't going to be very long. Five chapters is what I have in mind. But, if it's any consolation, there are a couple of longer stories to come after that. (And in the meantime… is anyone else going crazy with the lack of _Supernatural _this week? It's just plain _mean _to do this to us when we _know _what's coming in the finale.)

Thanks to Cheryl for the help!

A shout out to the reviewers: criminally charmed, Sparkiebunny, ami, TinTin11, yenneffer, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, BranchSuper, Yami Faerie, Scribble2Much, SandyDee84, mrs winchester and twomom.

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter II: Guilty<strong>

"It fits." Sam's eyes flickered to the motel room clock and Dean followed his gaze. Four in the afternoon: they had eight hours. Sam shook his head and went back to looking at his laptop screen. "Though we won't know for sure without speaking to the families."

"What've you found?"

"I've got thirteen possible incidents involving people with older siblings over the past nine weeks… Some of them will be just random accidents, I guess. And there might be some that didn't make the papers. Five of them, there's evidence that the person who died knew one of the seizure victims."

"That's not a lot to go on."

"It's all we've got."

"So what do we do now?"

"Here." Sam shifted the laptop so Dean could see it. "Three possible incidents since the last seizure. One girl knocked over by a bus while crossing a street – she's alive in the local PICU. One boy who had a severe reaction to peanut oil in his school cafeteria. The school nurse got to him in time, so he's OK. Made the news because that school's already got a couple of marks against it. And this – another hiking accident, a bear got someone. Well, they think it was a bear; there were no witnesses. Victim was found mauled."

"You do realize it could be something else entirely?" Dean said. "Something that didn't make the papers?"

"Yes, but we have to work with what we've got. We need to talk to the families."

"We're sticking together – no, don't even think about arguing, Sam. It's not open for discussion."

* * *

><p>Dean was better with young boys than Sam was.<p>

It was the one kind of witness he _was_ better with (well, unless you counted hot women who liked some action). Old ladies (and not-so-old ladies) and little girls all adored Sam and older men thought he was just the kind of guy they wanted their daughters to marry, but boys… Boys got on with Dean.

So when they went to see the boy with the peanut allergy, Dean was the one who did the talking.

It didn't take long to get the story tumbling out of him.

His name was Tyler Humes. He had a big sister, and she was normally pretty cool. Ever since their parents' divorce, their mother had to work two shifts to keep the house running, so his sister was the one who took care of him, made sure he got his meals and clothes and schoolbooks.

Dean could feel Sam's eyes boring into his back.

Tyler usually got on well with his sister – well, they fought, but everyone fought sometimes, right? But things had been rough in the past few weeks. Alice was stressed out over her SAT scores and college applications, and Tyler had to admit that he hadn't exactly made things easy. And then Dad had called and that was always difficult to deal with… Anyway, they'd fought and he'd said he couldn't wait for her to leave for college and she'd said – well, but he hadn't really meant it. He didn't think she'd meant what she'd said, either. He'd miss her when she went away. He hadn't spoken to her since the fight because she'd gone on a trip to Canada with her friends the next day. She'd be back in a week.

The peanut thing? Yeah, Tyler didn't get it. He'd tried to explain it to the school nurse, but she hadn't believed him. Tyler _knew_ he was allergic to peanuts and the cafeteria signs always specified ingredients, because a lot of kids were allergic to stuff. He'd seen the sign – he wasn't an idiot. But he hadn't been able to stop himself, it had been like something was controlling him.

* * *

><p>Jennifer Carson's mother opened up to Sam in a heartbeat.<p>

Jen was a sweet, gentle girl. She'd never hurt anyone. Wouldn't even swat flies. Yes, of course Jen and her sister were friends – they were twins and they were inseparable. Argue? Well, yes, sometimes they _did_ argue – but much less than siblings usually did. Did Agent Howard have a sibling? Oh, a big brother. Then he'd understand. Beth thought of herself as a big sister even though she was just a few minutes older. (Jen always insisted it didn't count.)

Recently?

Mrs. Carson drew Sam away, out of earshot of her older daughter.

Yes, they had, just before Jen's accident. Beth had made a new friend – Harriet, Mrs. Carson thought her name was. Jen didn't like her. Beth accused Jen of being jealous. It had been a typical argument: they were schoolgirls, Agent Howard knew how it went. Jen said Beth was an idiot and Beth got angry and said a lot she probably didn't mean. Normally they would have made it up a few hours later, but then Jen had stepped out into the street in front of that truck –

No, Beth wouldn't speak to anyone about it. She hadn't said a word. Thank God Jen was going to be all right: if Jen had died in that accident, she would have ended up losing both her daughters.

Sam asked if he could speak to Beth.

* * *

><p>Beth burst into tears as soon as he mentioned the accident.<p>

Sam gave her a tissue and waited.

It all came tumbling out a few minutes later. Mrs. Carson looked like she didn't know whether to be angry with Sam for upsetting her daughter or grateful to him for finally getting her to talk, and Dean stood awkwardly in the background. He was obviously uncomfortable with the sobbing teenager, and it would save time if he looked at the inpatient records while Sam was talking to Beth Carson, but he'd already announced that he wasn't leaving Sam alone.

When Beth could finally get words out, it was clear both that she cared about her sister and that she was being eaten up by guilt – and she refused to let Sam comfort her. Yes, it was true that it had been an accident, and _yes_, it was true that Jen should have looked before stepping into the street, but that didn't make it any less Beth's fault.

Sam, suppressing a sigh and a sense of déjà vu, asked how it was her fault.

She had upset Jen. She'd said such _things_ – she'd said she wished Harriet had been her sister instead of Jennifer. If she hadn't said all that, Jen might not have been distracted, she might not have been brooding, she might have stopped to _look_ at the road before trying to cross it. And she hadn't _meant_ any of them but Jen wasn't waking _up_, and what if Beth never got a chance to tell her she was sorry? What in Jen _died _thinking Beth had meant –

Beth, suddenly realizing that she was crying into the shirt of a perfect stranger, blushed and drew back, apologizing.

* * *

><p>"Dude, what the hell?" Dean hissed as they left the hospital. "First Tyler Humes's father, and now this Harriet person. And we haven't even gone to see the bear dude's family yet." Sam frowned, but didn't answer. "Sam?" Dean prodded.<p>

"Yeah," Sam mumbled. "Doesn't make sense, does it? Thirteen incidents – sixteen if you add these three. Makes you wonder…"

"What?"

"Whether there's more than one thing at work here." A pause, and then he went on. "It makes sense, Dean. We're looking at two totally different MOs. One goes for younger siblings right after a fight and causes a mishap that usually isn't fatal. The other seems to go for the person _responsible_ for the fight – but it doesn't attack all of them, it restricts itself to one per week. Always the same thing, always fatal."

"Right. And we have two possible victims tonight – a third if we turn something up at the next place. And those are only the ones we know about. How do we figure out where it's going to hit?"

"We don't. There's no point, Dean – there's no way we can stop the seizures once they start, and medical aid has been useless against this thing so far. We have to find the thing and get rid of it."

"How?"

"Timothy Munroe," Sam said. "He was the first victim. It has to be tied to him."

"What, you think that girl who had a hiking accident…"

Sam hesitated and then shook his head. "No. Her grandmother described her as gentle and kind – she couldn't have turned rogue so soon. She might've killed Timothy for revenge, but not all the others."

"You don't know that. The grandmother might've been lying. We salt and burn Abbie first, and then we track down whatever the other thing is. And until we have it, Sam, you don't go anywhere on your own, you don't _do_ anything on your own, and you don't eat anything except what I give you myself."

"Dean, I can –"

"_No._ Look what happened to that kid with the peanut oil. You're staying where I can see you. You know where Abbie's buried?"

"The grandmother told me."

"Good. Let's go."

* * *

><p>It wasn't hard to find the grave. Dean dug while Sam held the flashlight.<p>

Dean was three feet down when Abbie's ghost appeared.

The spirit didn't attack Dean or throw him around or do _anything_ to him, which was unexpected. Ghosts normally didn't like being forced across to the other side, and they did everything they could to stop it happening.

On the other hand… Maybe this was a smarter ghost than most, because it slipped silently behind Sam instead, and Dean promptly stopped his work to yell a warning to his brother.

Sam turned and fired; the spirit dissipated, but reappeared at his shoulder.

"Sammy, down!"

Sam hit the ground just as Dean's salt round tore through the air where his head had been. By the time he'd pushed himself up the ghost was back, hand on his arm as though trying to help him get to his feet.

"Dean, wait!" Sam said, as Dean raised his gun to fire again. "I think she just wants to say something."

"Yeah, well, if she hurts you, I'm going to –"

"I think she knows that. She's not trying to hurt me." Sam got to his feet, slowly, eyes on Abbie's ghost. She seemed to be saying something but Dean couldn't hear. He started to get closer, but the spirit promptly retreated behind Sam.

"Dean, it's OK. She's just… showing me stuff."

Dean waited.

Ten minutes later, Abbie's ghost vanished, and Sam fell heavily to his knees.

"Sam!" Dean scrambled out of the hole he'd dug. "Sammy, c'mon. You OK?" He grabbed Sam's arm and tried to pull him to his feet. His brother was deadweight. "_Sam!_ What's wrong?"

"I'm fine. Just… Give me a minute."

"Yeah, OK. Take a minute. Take ten minutes."

Dean dropped to his knees next to Sam – he had to; it was the only way to keep the Sasquatch from falling the rest of the way – and managed not to complain when Sam slumped against him, head going down on Dean's shoulder.

It was a couple of minutes before Sam moved.

He lifted his head and let Dean tug him upright, still leaning on his brother for support.

"You want to tell me what that was about, Sam?" Dean asked.

"Abbie's doing it," Sam said. "But she's not trying to hurt people. She's trying to stop the other thing. She didn't realize that she was killing the people it was possessing."

"But, dude, the thing seems to be possessing the younger siblings who have accidents. Why is Abbie killing random people?"

"Spell." Sam lurched away from Dean, just managing to keep his feet. "It possesses the other people and casts a spell of some kind on the siblings. Both of them. _Ow._" Sam massaged his head. "Abbie can only go after it on Wednesdays at midnight. She hasn't figured out why, but at all other times she's bound either to her grave or to the spot where she died. Wednesdays at midnight she's free for a few minutes and she goes for whoever it possessed most recently. She's not trying to cause the seizures; they're a side-effect of her examining their brains for possession."

"Who's she going for now?"

"Nobody – I think. I tried to tell her we were going to take care of it and she had to stop killing people. I think she got it. Not sure."

"OK, so what exactly is this _it _and how do we gank it?"

"It's…" Sam heaved a breath. "It's a ghost. Abbie didn't know the story, but from what she could sense, she thought it was a local witchcraft practitioner – I guess that'd explain how the ghost puts spells on people. He and his little brother were attacked by a bear while they were hiking. He tripped on a tree root, sprained his ankle, and couldn't get up. His brother left him and ran."

There was something odd in Sam's voice. Dean couldn't tell what it was, but every instinct he had was screaming at him to take it away.

So he said the only thing he could think of.

"I guess not all big brothers are as lucky as me, huh?"

Sam didn't smile.

"Abbie said his remains are still there – in the forest. The younger brother was so ashamed of himself that he never led anyone back to the spot. He said they'd run in opposite directions and been separated. But Abbie thinks she knows where they are – not far from where she fell."

"Yeah. OK, good. Let's get rid of this thing."

Sam looked startled and the intensity in Dean's voice, and Dean had to admit that he was surprised himself. Although, when he thought about it…

He'd been standing right behind Sam, listening to Elizabeth Carson. Dean understood, in a way that he didn't know if Sam ever could, what it was to feel truly, completely responsible for someone. Sure, Sam was as big as a house _now_, but there had been a time when he'd been a baby who had needed his big brother for everything. Dean had fed Sammy, bathed him, changed him, held him when he cried and cuddled him while he slept.

Sammy hadn't just been a baby. He'd been _Dean's_ baby.

From what he'd heard, Beth Carson had felt the same way about her sister. Jennifer would live, but that didn't change the fact that she'd been hurt and Beth held herself responsible for that. Sam might never truly understand, but Dean did.

And he was going to find the evil son of a bitch that was doing this and kill it as slowly and painfully as he could.

* * *

><p>Dean hiked up the mountain trail, breathing harder than he liked. Thankfully Sam didn't hear him wheeze – or at least he pretended not to – and so Dean could pretend that he was slowing down to enjoy the moonlit view.<p>

He had insisted on taking point. There was no way he was letting his little brother go first on the narrow path. Of course, just to prove that he wasn't turning into a girl, he'd given Sam the equipment to carry. All that muscle had to be useful for _something_ other than freaking people out.

It took a while to find the remains of the missing hiker. Abbie had given Sam a rough guide, but her directions covered a broad swath of the forest. It was closing in on midnight by the time Dean spotted something metallic glinting in the beam of his flashlight.

"Got it," he said, heaving a sigh of relief. "This should be easy. Time to salt and burn."

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	3. This Should Be Easy

**Disclaimer: **If I owned the boys, there would be a lot more hurt Sam on the show. And we would've had hospital Sammy at least _once_.

Thanks to Cheryl for the help and to Yami Faerie, criminally charmed, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, BranchSuper, TinTin11, twomoms, Sparkiebunny, SandyDee84, Scribble2Much, jensengirl4eva, Bear07 and SPN Mum for the reviews.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter III: This Should Be Easy<strong>

Sam had no warning.

One minute Dean was ahead of him, casting concerned glances that he was bound to deny later over his shoulder at his little brother. The next, Dean had grabbed the bag of equipment from Sam, fixing him with a death glare.

_Oh crap._

"Dean?" Sam tried, hoping against hope that it was just general moodiness and the ghost hadn't decided to possess his big brother, because that would make the night just bloody _perfect_.

"I'm right freaking _here_, Sam!" Dean spat. "You don't have to look like someone took away your favourite teddy bear. What is it?"

_Damn it. Not good._

"Dean, are you –"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Now do you have a point, or can we get on with the job we're here to do?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said slowly. Either Dean _was_ possessed or something had suddenly happened to put him in a bitch of a bad mood. Likelier the first, because just a few moments ago _Dean _had been the one looking like he suspected the world of having designs on his favourite teddy bear. One way or another, it was best not to antagonize him. "Let's finish the job."

He reached for the canister of salt sticking out of the bag. Dean pushed him back. Hard.

_Damn it. _

"Dean, calm down, man. It's a simple job. Let's just do it and go."

"Sure it's a simple job, but if there's a way to screw it up I'm sure you'll find it," Dean growled. "So how about you just stay out of the way and let me handle it?"

Definitely a possession. _Damn it damn it damn it._

"Um… Yeah, sure. If that's what you want."

Sam knew even as he said it that it wasn't going to be that simple – why would the ghost just let Dean salt and burn its remains? Sam suspected it knew why they were there and it was trying to save itself in the only way it could – by possessing Dean.

This wasn't its usual MO, though, was it? It didn't possess either the person it wanted to kill or the siblings of the person it wanted to kill. It possessed someone else close to them.

So… It wasn't used to this. Maybe it would slip up.

On the other hand… This wasn't its usual MO, so they had no way of knowing what it would do next.

Sam saw a flash of _something_ in Dean's eyes, and he realized Dean was fighting it. That gave him something to work with. He just had to keep it occupied and keep from annoying it long enough for Dean to get it out of his head.

And in the meantime, Sam would see if he couldn't find a way to sidle past Dean and torch the bones. That'd get rid of the thing permanently.

Almost as though reading his mind, Dean said, "What, you think you can do a better job of the salt-and-burn than I can?"

Well, maybe it was no surprise that the ghost could tell what he was thinking. Dean always could – or almost always – and it was possessing Dean.

_Right. Quick and dirty. That's the way to do this._

Sam tried to dive past Dean. Dean was quick, though, and he tackled Sam before he could get to the bones. For a minute they rolled across the forest floor in an honest-to-God fistfight –

And then there was a sharp crack as Dean hit his head on something. He groaned, grip on Sam loosening.

Sam scrambled off his brother, reaching down to help Dean sit up.

"Dean?" Dean said nothing. "Dean, are you OK?"

Dean didn't respond, not even when Sam pulled him closer and wrapped a supporting arm around his back. He just sighed and settled his head under Sam's chin.

Sam felt his fear ratchet up.

"Dean, please. Talk to me. Are you OK?"

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was a hoarse, pained whisper.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Feel… awful. What happened?"

"It got to you. Are you OK?"

"My _head_," Dean groaned. "Sammy… _hurts_."

Dean huddled closer to Sam, which sent Sam's heart shooting up into his throat. Dean had to be feeling really, _really _bad to admit he wanted his little brother's comfort.

The ghost could wait.

Sam settled down for the long haul, tugging Dean closer, running one hand through his brother's hair.

_It's OK. It's going to be OK. It wasn't that hard of a hit. He might be a bit concussed, but that's it. Dean's going to be fine once he's had time to get his breath back._

"What happened?" Dean mumbled.

"The ghost, dude. Possessed you?"

"Don't suppose you could've found a way to get it out of me _without_ breaking my head in half?"

"Sorry." Sam rubbed the small bump on Dean's head. "You're going to be fine. Just relax."

"The ghost –"

"It can wait."

"No, it can't. It could show up again any second. Besides, I'm damned if I'm going to sit here with you _cuddling _me. Burn it, Sam, and then we can go back to the motel and pretend this never happened."

Sam was torn, but he knew Dean was right. They needed to get rid of the ghost.

He started to ease Dean out of his arms, stopping short when it elicited a pained moan from his brother.

"Are you _trying_ to kill me, Sam?"

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered. "Dean, I have to get to the bones. What do you want me to do?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, figured you wouldn't even be able to work _that _out for yourself. Was college useful for _anything_ other than turning your back on your family?"

Sam suppressed an angry retort. Dean was always nasty when he was in pain. (And he was always apologetic later, slipping out of their motel room as soon as he was back on his feet and coming back with a new book for Sam as a peace offering.)

"I'll be back in a minute, OK?"

Dean half-lifted his head from Sam's shoulder, then groaned and lowered it again, squeezing his eyes shut. "_Hurts._"

"Yeah, I know," Sam said, as soothingly as he could. "Just a minute, OK, Dean?"

"Yeah, whatever. I'm sure you couldn't've got the thing out of my head _without_ cracking my skull open."

Sam swallowed. "You know what? The job can wait a few minutes."

"No, it bloody well can't, Sam. Just _do _it. See if you can't get _one _thing right." Dean raised his head again, this time fully. "_Ow_… _This_ is what I get for trying to watch out for you. Don't know why I didn't just let you stay dead."

Sam stopped short in the act of settling Dean down against a rock.

"Dean, c'mon. It's just the headache talking."

"It _is _the headache talking, but that doesn't mean it's not true, Sammy. I could've been with Lisa, safe and happy, and instead I'm here in the middle of nowhere with _you_. And to make it even better, my head feels like it's going to explode. This is just _awesome_. Should've let you stay in the Cage."

Dean tended to be unpleasant when he was hurting, but…

"Yeah, OK," Sam said, managing to keep his voice light. It _was _just the pain… wasn't it? "Let's just get this done, and then you can go back to Lisa if you want. Five minutes."

"Whatever, dude."

Sam made sure Dean was propped securely. Then he got to his feet and gathered the equipment that had spilled from the bag and scattered during their fight. Salt, gasoline, lighter –

Something heavy slammed into him from behind, knocking him face-first into the ground.

Sam spat out a mouthful of dirt, scrambled to his feet, and looked around. There was nothing but trees in sight. There was nobody else there except for Dean, who was sitting exactly where Sam had left him, frowning.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean demanded. "Did you trip over your own feet again?"

"Something pushed me."

"There's nothing uglier than you around here, Sam. Just burn the damn bones and let's blow this joint."

"Yeah, OK."

Sam picked up the salt canister.

He sensed the movement before he heard it. He dropped the canister and spun, pulling his Taurus from his belt and raising it –

And Dean was behind him, shaky but on his feet.

"_Dean._" Sam lowered the gun. "How about a little warning next time, so I don't almost shoot you?"

"How about paying a little _attention_ instead of being off in your bubble? What the hell is wrong with you today, Sam? First you called me sounding like something was after you and I almost banged up my baby trying to get to you, only to find you perfectly _fine_. And now… Just get out of the way. I'll handle this."

"Dean, you're not OK –"

"You _think_? I'm here with _you_ being attacked by pissed-off ghosts when I could've had a normal life. Of course I'm not bloody OK! Nothing's ever OK when you're involved, Sam. There are millions of children born every year who _don't _get fed demon blood, dozens of hunters who go through life without developing freaky powers, and seven billion _other _people on this planet who _weren't_ destined to be Lucifer's vessel. Any of them could've been my brother, but I had to get stuck with _you_."

"Dean –"

Dean's cocked gun made Sam stop short.

"You know," Dean said slowly, "I'm not even sure that it's still you. Maybe there's still a little bit of Lucifer inside."

"_Dean –_"

"And even if there isn't, all that demon blood you drank to hold him… You're not my brother. You haven't been my brother for years now. I should just finish this before you kill someone else."

Sam stiffened. The ghost was still in Dean – that had to be it.

"Dean, put down the gun."

"Back off, Sam. I'll take care of this."

Sam's fingers tightened around his gun. Dean had been out of it for a year, and his soulless self had apparently spent that year working out. Sam's reflexes were faster, now. If he could get off a grazing shot to the shoulder or thigh, something non-fatal that would incapacitate Dean while Sam finished the salt-and-burn…

That was what Sam always did, wasn't it? He found ways to hurt people he cared about.

Besides, what if it was really Dean? He couldn't shoot his brother if he wasn't possessed, not after everything he'd done to wreck Dean's life already. Maybe he should just –

Sam hesitated a second too long.

Dean's fist connected with his jaw and he saw stars. Before he could recover, he felt the butt of the gun in his ribs, and then on the back of his head, and then he'd been shoved against a tree and Dean's forearm was bruising his throat, choking the life out of him. The barrel of the gun pressed into his ribs.

Sam felt despair stealing over him.

Everything he did always went to hell, didn't it? Hell, the _one_ thing he'd thought was _definitely _good, throwing himself and Lucifer into the Cage to save the world from the Apocalypse, had turned out to be nothing more than a damn _reprieve_ while Raphael's gang did whatever it was they were doing that had Cas so uptight and this Mother of Monsters character emerged from whichever rock _she'd_ been hiding under.

His hand twitched. He had dropped the Taurus, but his shotgun was tucked into his belt and he could probably still go for it. But what was the point? Dean was right. He always screwed everything up.

Sam's vision began to go gray around the edges.

"_Dean_," he choked, one last, desperate plea.

Dean ignored him and pressed harder.

Sam saw the flash of movement, felt the sudden chill, and realized with a thrill of horror that it was midnight.

_No._

Abbie's ghost was standing a few feet away. She – _it_ – was watching Sam and Dean with an expression of mingled regret and determination. She poised herself, and Sam knew she was going to dive for Dean.

_NO._

Sam got his fingers around his shotgun. He used his last bit of strength to push Dean out of the way before he fired in Abbie's general direction.

Then he gave in to the beckoning darkness.

* * *

><p>Yup. <em>There <em>it is. ;-)

What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	4. Salt and Burn

**Disclaimer:** Nothing's mine.

Thanks to The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, Scribble2Much, BranchSuper, TinTin11, Colby's girl, Yami Faerie, SandyDee84 and Sparkybunny for the reviews.

And a lot of gratitude to Cheryl for helping me sort this out!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IV: Salt and Burn<strong>

Dean had tried to stop himself. He _had_. A part of him – a small part, the part the ghost was controlling – had been angry. The ghost had trawled through his mind, using the memory of every argument they had ever had, every bit of anger or resentment Dean had ever felt. Although it went against every fibre, although it flew in the face of all his instincts to _take care of Sam_, Dean had found himself saying things calculated to hurt.

He felt his own arm pressing into Sam's throat, and he was horrified but he could not make himself back off. He could see Sam slipping, see the light going out in his baby brother's eyes, and he mentally yelled for Sam to do something – to get at the shotgun Dean knew he still had, to use some of that freakish muscle to push Dean off, to do _anything_ other than stand there and let his brother strangle him.

But there was hesitation in Sam's eyes, and the sudden horror Dean felt almost made him lose the tenuous control he had.

Sam wasn't sure.

Bloody freaking _hell_.

Dean had just said all the most cruel things he could think of and now he was cutting off Sam's air supply, watching impassively as the light faded in Sam's eyes, and his little brother wasn't bloody _sure _whether or not he was possessed.

_Freaking stupid son of a freaking Sasquatch bitch!_

"Dean," Sam mumbled, and Dean fought harder for control because _damn it _this freak of nature wasn't going to get Sammy.

And then there was an explosion of noise and movement: Dean was shoved aside, a gunshot rang out, and his head hit a rock for the second time that night.

* * *

><p>Dean came back to consciousness slowly. The first thing he was aware of was pain. His head felt like somebody had decided to start taking his skull apart with a sledgehammer. The second thing he was aware of was that there was no huge hand in his hair or on his ribs, no voice urging him to open his eyes.<p>

Sam wasn't there.

Dean was hurting and Sam wasn't there. That meant –

Memory came back in a flood, memory and _damn it all to freaking hell_ and _God Sammy please no_.

Dean sat up, ignoring the shooting pain the motion sent through his head. He blinked, trying to clear his fuzzy vision –

And the first thing he saw was Sam stretched out his front a few feet away.

He wasn't moving.

_No._

Dean tried to get up but his legs wouldn't hold him, wouldn't even let him _stand_, leave alone walk. He collapsed into a groaning heap.

_No. No no no no no no. Can't do this. Have to get to Sammy._

He managed to get himself to his knees and crawl the short distance to where his little brother lay.

Sam didn't stir, not even when Dean grabbed him under the arms and rolled himonto his back, grunting a little at the weight. The Sasquatch was freaking _heavy_.

"S-Sammy?" Dean stuttered, shaking him. There was no response. "_Sammy_," Dean said, more urgently. "Come on, don't do this to me. Wake up." Still nothing. Dean's finger felt for a pulse and found it. "_Sam!_ Wake the hell up!"

No reaction.

This couldn't be – but, no, Sam wasn't having a seizure. He was just unresponsive. Although, with their luck, either Abbie or the ghost they'd been trying to waste had rootled around in Sam's head and managed to knock a crack in the wall.

Right. First things first. Salt and burn the son of a bitch that had possessed him. If Sam didn't wake up after that, go back to the graveyard and salt and burn Abbie's bones. If _that_ didn't work –

If that didn't work, Dean would burn the whole damn graveyard to the ground if that was what it took.

He looked around for the salt.

And then he felt _it_ in his mind again, trying to take over, trying to force him to get the gun in his belt and point it at Sam's head and squeeze the trigger.

_It'll_ _all be over._ The voice was like a caress, and Dean could feel its allure even though he _knew _it was the ghost. _Think about it. He's ruined everything for you. If it weren't for your younger brother, you would still be with the woman you love. You would be helping her raise her son. Your mother would never have died, and your father would never have turned into a drill sergeant._

Dean snarled for the thing to shut up.

_He's a freak. He's always been a freak. Your life would have been perfect if Sam had never been born._

He had to get it the hell out of his head, and that meant burning the bones. Dean gathered the scattered equipment, trying to ignore the voice whispering about how he could go back to Lisa and his apple-pie life.

He started to shake salt over the bones.

_You've given up everything for him, and when has he ever been grateful for it? He left you to go to college, turned his back on you so he could have normal. You don't owe him anything._

Dean ignored it. It had been impossible to shake the ghost's hold on him earlier, but it was easy now. Sam was still and unresponsive, maybe having a seizure, maybe having a flashback of hell, maybe bloody _dying_. Freaking idiot of a freaking hiker getting himself killed and then taking it out on Dean's little brother.

_You don't understand. I loved my brother. I did everything I could to make him happy. And he abandoned me here! He let me die and then he just left my body here to rot!_

"I'm sorry," Dean said out loud as he poured out the gasoline.

And he was, in a way. He and Sam had had some pretty damn _serious_ problems, but Dean knew now – as he had known then, except that he'd been to angry to think about it – that everything Sam had done had been because somewhere inside that freakish brain of his there was still a four-year-old boy who wanted nothing more than his big brother's approval.

_He let me die._

This time the ghost sounded bewildered and sad. Dean almost felt sorry for it. He tried to imagine a situation where Sam, without being possessed or high on demon blood, deliberately did something to harm him, and when he couldn't he really _did _feel bad for the ghost.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, match in his hand. "I'm sorry you couldn't have a little brother like Sam."

He struck the match and let it fall.

* * *

><p>Dean was starting to panic.<p>

Sam was _alive_. His heartbeat was a steady, comforting rhythm under Dean's hand. When he passed his fingers over Sam's half-parted lips he could feel tiny puffs of breath.

That was the good part.

The bad part was that through being triaged, being half-carried, half-dragged through the forest to the Impala, and finally being manhandled into the front seat and manoeuvred so that he was curled up with his head on Dean's knee, Sam hadn't woken.

Dean was driving hell-for-leather in the direction of the nearest hospital. He knew there would be trouble: Sam was beaten up, Dean's knuckles were bruised; it wouldn't take much for the doctors to put two and two together. But it didn't matter. The worst they or the police could do was put him in a cell until Sam woke up, and while it would suck not to be at his baby brother's side, it was infinitely preferable to having Sam die on him.

He was so intent on the road that it was a moment before he realized Sam was moving.

"_Sam!_"

Dean cut across two lanes onto the shoulder, thanking his luck that it was the middle of the night and there was no traffic. He braked hard, not even flinching at the protesting squeal or the sound of gravel hitting the underside of the chassis.

"Sam, you with me?"

"Dean?" Sam mumbled, barely audible.

"Yeah, I'm here. You OK?"

"What happened?"

"I don't know," Dean confessed, squeezing Sam's shoulder lightly. "One of the ghosts must've got you."

"Ghosts?" Sam frowned. "Hunt?"

"Yeah. Don't worry about it. I ganked the one in the forest, and we can deal with Abbie later. Don't think she'll be much of a threat now; she might even find her own way into the light now that the other one's gone."

"The other one?" Sam sounded bewildered.

"You remember what happened, right?" Dean asked, alarmed.

"Remember… Not really. Remember you digging up Abbie's grave… And then she showed up. Nothing after that."

Dean let out a sigh of relief. If Sam remembered even a part of the night, it wasn't that bad. It wasn't unusual to forget what had happened immediately before being knocked out.

"OK, kiddo. We can work with that. How're you feeling?" Sam ignored the question and reached up to feel Dean's forehead. Dean pushed his hand back down. "Dude, stop groping me. We're in the middle of the highway."

"You OK?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You don't look OK."

Dean was about to make a snarky comment about how it was a miracle he looked as good as he did with a whiny little bitch for a brother, but that was too much like what the ghost had been forcing him to say earlier. He couldn't get his tongue around the words.

Instead, he patted Sam's shoulder and said, "I'm fine, kiddo. You just worry about you. How are you feeling?"

For an answer, Sam started to sit up, flinched, and clutched at his head.

"I don't get it," he said, letting Dean prop him against the passenger door with a rolled-up jacket under his neck. "I thought… Where are we?"

"I'm taking you to the hospital."

"What?" Sam sounded suddenly wide awake. "Dean, _no_. You can't – how are we going to explain this?" A cracked rib Dean had found in the triage, a bloody lump on the back of Sam's head, and assorted bruises just beginning to form, including the very distinctive signs of having been strangled. "They'll think you did it."

"We've explained stuff before."

"Dean. I'm fine. I don't need a hospital."

"We're not taking risks with a head injury, Sam. Not now, not with you. You were out cold for over half an hour. And you don't even remember what happened!"

"Yeah, but that was just because I got knocked out or Abbie got to me or whatever. It wasn't a flashback."

"I don't care. Don't be ridiculous, Sam! We don't know _what _might jar the wall –"

"Exactly! We don't know what might jar the wall! If I go to a hospital with a head injury they'll insist on an MRI and a bunch of X-rays. How do you know _that _won't crack the wall? And what if they want me to talk to a psychiatrist or something? He might ask me something that –"

"Sam," Dean growled.

"I'm just saying. I'm OK, Dean. It's just a bump."

"Sam –"

"Dean, _please_." _There_ it was, that wheedling tone that annoyed the hell out of Dean but which he could never refuse. "I just… I don't want random strangers touching me right now."

Dean sighed. "Fine. I'll meet you halfway. We'll go to the motel and I'll check you over properly, and then I – _I_, Sam, not _we_ – will decide if you need to go to a hospital or not."

"But –"

"It's the only deal you're getting, Sam."

Sam huffed out a breath. "_Fine._"

* * *

><p>Dean drove up as close to their motel room door as he could before braking. His head was <em>killing<em> him – he'd hit it twice _and _had a fratricidal son of a bitch rootling around in it – and he wanted nothing more than to rest, but he couldn't. Not till Sam was taken care of.

He didn't know whether to be worried or relieved that Sam was still so out of it that he hadn't remembered Dean's bumps on the head. He obviously suspected something was wrong, because he kept looking at Dean with an expression halfway between the bitchface and the puppy-dog eyes, like he couldn't decide whether he was annoyed with Dean for not levelling with him or hurt that his big brother would keep him in the dark.

When Dean shut off the engine, Sam opened the passenger door, but a glare from his brother was enough to keep him from trying to get out on his own.

Dean's worry went up a notch.

* * *

><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p> 


	5. Ignorance Was Bliss

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note:** And… That's the end of this one. Not quite sure what's coming up next. Maybe finale tags, depending on how that goes. Or maybe one of the longer fics I've been planning. ;-)

Thanks to Cheryl for a lot of help!

And my gratitude to K Hanna Korossy, The Lilac Elf of Lothlorien, Yami Faerie, Sparkiebunny, T.L. Arens, SandyDee84, criminally charmed, TinTin11, cookjar, jensengirl4eva, Scribble2Much and BranchSuper for the reviews!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter V: Ignorance Was Bliss<strong>

Dean knew the exact moment when Sam remembered what had happened.

At first Sam sat still, pliant and trustful. Dean poked his head and shone a light in his eyes and ran a hand over his chest to check for broken bones. The occasional grimace of pain crossed Sam's face, but he didn't move, not even when Dean's fingers ghosted over a cracked rib.

And then – Dean would never know what it was that had triggered the return of Sam's memory. A flash of light, maybe, or the sound of a passing car.

Whatever the cause, the effect was that Sam's eyes went wide, his breath hitched, and his body stiffened. Before Dean could react, he had relaxed again. It barely lasted a second. But now Sam wasn't quite meeting his eyes, seemed just a little uncomfortable with Dean's ministrations. He was hiding it well: if Dean hadn't been a big brother, or if he'd been dealing with anyone but Sam, he might not even have noticed.

He _did_ notice, and he felt like an icy hand was squeezing his stomach.

Dean had been worried about whether the ghost's attack would kick off another Sam Winchester guilt trip, or, worse, poke at the drywall in his little brother's head, but that had been all he had been worried about. He hadn't even considered the possibility that Sam would think Dean had _meant_ it.

After all, Sam never did. Sam had always been stronger that way. When something nasty made them yell abuse at each other, Sam could always shrug it off afterwards. It didn't bother him – or, if it did, it bothered him so little that he could hide it even from _Dean_. Dean was the one who tended to dwell on things, who would act like a jerk because he needed to hear Sam say the words: _I didn't mean it. You're my big brother._

But Sam _had_ thought Dean had meant it, hadn't he? That was why he'd hesitated. Dean had said he wished he'd never saved Sam, he'd been trying to _strangle_ Sam, and Sam hadn't been sure whether or not Dean was possessed.

Sam thought it was possible that it was Dean talking.

The freaking idiot could have _died_ because he freaking thought it was possible that his big brother wished he was dead. Moron.

Suddenly Dean couldn't sit there anymore. It was too hot. The room was stifling. He couldn't –

Dean got to his feet, not looking at Sam. Not many things could break Dean Winchester, but if he looked into his baby brother's eyes and saw dislike –

Dean fled.

He didn't get far. Just to the bushes outside the door, and then he had to stop and throw up.

Sam had almost died. And Sam had thought it was possible that Dean hadn't been possessed, which meant that somewhere in that planet-sized brain of his he thought Dean hated him.

Sam had almost _died_.

Sam had –

There was a shadow next to him, blotting out the light streaming through the motel room door. He felt a big hand rubbing his back, warm and gentle.

He managed to muster up the energy to glare in the general direction of the person next to him.

"Told you not to get up till I gave you the OK."

"I'm fine, Dean. It's just a cracked rib. I've had worse."

Dean would've liked to be able to say, "But not from me," but that wasn't true. Sam had had worse injuries from him.

Like the time with Veritas.

Dean heaved again. Cas hadn't told Sam about that, had he? He couldn't have – Sam hadn't given any sign that he knew that he'd asked for his big brother's help and his big brother's reaction had been to beat him into unconsciousness. But Sam was so bloody good at keeping secrets.

Or maybe he'd remembered that. Maybe the ghost had managed to bring back _that _memory.

Oh, God, did Sam know? Did he remember? Was that why –

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Dean said, because suddenly it seemed more important than anything else to get that out. "That time after I killed Veritas, when you told me… I was mad, but I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry, kiddo."

As soon as the words were out he could have bitten off his tongue. What the hell was he _thinking_, blurting stuff out without knowing whether or not Sam knew it? What the hell was he thinking saying _anything _about that missing year at _all_?

"Dean, it's OK," Sam soothed. "Calm down."

And Dean felt colder than ever. Sam hadn't said, "What the hell are you talking about?" or, "Who's Veritas?"

_Damn it._

Sam knew. Or remembered. It didn't matter which. All that mattered was that Sam thought –

_Damn it. Damn it damn it damn it. Worst big brother ever._

Then Dean was laughing because it was freaking hilarious, wasn't it? All his life he'd been a big brother before anything else. It had been the one thing he was even better at than hunting. He'd been proud of it, proud of how good he was at it, and the blind adoration he got from Sam had always meant more than any praise anyone else could give him.

And now it turned out he was a screw-up at that, too. Because, really, what kind of big brother was he if it was possible for Sam to believe, however briefly, that Dean hated him enough to actually want him dead?

Dean wasn't sure when the laughter had turned to sobs.

"Dean!" That was Sam's voice. He sounded terrified. Score another one for Dean Winchester: scare the hell out of an already injured little brother. "Dean, come on, man. What is it?"

Dean felt himself being pulled backwards. He knew Sam was going to hug him or do something else equally girly, but he couldn't bring himself to care. And, yeah, they were in the freaking parking lot, but so what? The world was already screwed eight ways to hell. How much worse could it freaking _get_?

Dean could feel his breath coming short and sharp, and he knew he was close to hyperventilating. He had to stop, he had to calm himself down. Sam couldn't do it. Sam was hurt. Besides, Sam thought Dean hated him.

Sam couldn't –

Dean was warm. The hand that had been on his back was now resting on his head. He could hear the comforting thumping of a heartbeat that he had known since he had first put his ear to his mother's rounded stomach to listen for his little brother. He could smell the antiseptic he'd been dabbing into Sam's scrapes.

Suddenly nothing seemed as bad. He was alive and Sam was alive, and whatever Sam thought, he clearly cared enough to practically _cuddle _Dean in the middle of the parking lot. (Sam loved chick-flick moments, but even he, girl though he was, didn't really like having them in public. Of course, at this hour there was probably nobody else there, but still. It was the principle of the thing.)

"It wasn't me," Dean said. "I don't – I've _never _regretted it, Sam."

"Dean, it's OK. You don't have to –"

"_Sam._" Dean tried to sound stern. He had to admit it was a little ridiculous to scold Sam and lean into the warmth of his chest at the same time, but he was a big brother, right? He could pull stuff like that if he wanted to. "I mean it. You're my little brother. I've never regretted anything I've done for you."

Sam didn't say anything, and Dean had a sinking feeling that his little brother didn't believe him.

* * *

><p>Sitting on the curb with Dean having a meltdown in his arms, Sam had to confess himself at a loss.<p>

Dean didn't have meltdowns. Dean got mad and threw punches and later when he felt bad about it he got Sam vanilla lattes with caramel and cinnamon sprinkles. That was what Dean did.

Dean didn't start sobbing in motel parking lots and he sure as hell didn't settle down when Sam hugged him and rubbed his head.

The world was spinning off its axis, and Sam had no idea what to do.

Dean was shaking again, choking out apologies and promises and pleas, unresponsive to anything Sam said. Sam really didn't get it… Well, he kind of did. He'd hesitated, unsure whether Dean had been possessed or just angry. Dean was pissed off because Sam had even considered the possibility that Dean, in full possession of his faculties, would try to do him actual permanent injury.

No, that wasn't right. Dean wasn't pissed off. That was the whole problem. Sam knew how to deal with Dean when he was pissed off.

Dean was _broken_.

And not because of having to leave Lisa and Ben or because of all the crap that went with being a hunter or even because of all the crap that went with being a Winchester. Dean was broken because he thought Sam didn't trust him anymore.

Right. First things first. They needed to be doing this somewhere other than the parking lot.

The one thing his soulless self had done right was to leave him with enough muscle for any three normal hunters. His big brother wasn't exactly a lightweight, but, even with a cracked rib, it was no problem to get Dean indoors and push him into a chair before he registered what was happening.

Sam, suppressing a groan, lowered himself to a crouch to check Dean for injuries.

Dean chose that moment to snap out of whatever corner of his mind he'd been in. Sam felt the hand on his shoulder a moment before he heard his brother's annoyed, "Dude, what the _hell_? I just patched you up! Who gave you permission to wreck my handiwork?"

But there was something off, something _wrong_, something in his tone that belied the lightness of his words. Sam knew they weren't OK.

And that was it.

Sam felt the fight go out of him. He'd told himself Dean hadn't meant it. Dean _couldn't _have meant it. It had just been the ghost talking, right?

Except that he couldn't be sure, because it was true. He _had _screwed up Dean's life. If Sam had never been born, if Azazel had never come for him, if their mother had never died over his crib… Dean could have had normal. Dean had _had _normal until Sam had come along. If Dean really _did _hate him… Well, Sam couldn't blame him for it.

It was only when he felt a hand running through his hair that he realized he'd dropped his head onto his brother's knee.

"Dean?"

"What happened back there?" Dean asked quietly. "Who were you shooting at?"

"Abbie – she was there. I thought – I was afraid she was going to attack you and…" Sam shook his head. "She didn't, though. I think she tried to get into my head. She must have figured out that going for the possessed people wasn't working."

"Tried, huh?"

Sam laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe the wall put her off."

"I guess we owe her." Dean's hand stilled for a moment before the movement began again. "If she hadn't shown up, I would've killed you."

"Dean, it wasn't –"

"And about that, Sam. What were you _thinking_?"

"I didn't –"

"Did you really think it could _possibly _be me?"

"I wasn't _sure_," Sam mumbled. "I couldn't – I wouldn't blame you if you _did _hate me, after everything, and –"

"Sam. Shut up."

"But –"

"I mean it," Dean hissed. He sounded furious, but the fingers rubbing Sam's scalp were gentle. "I can't believe you'd be that stupid! That's what you really think, that I wish you'd stayed in the Cage?"

"If I'd never been born –"

"If you'd never been born, I would still have had a miserable life. Mom made that deal ten years before you were born, Sam. Azazel was always going to come that night. He might've tried to feed _me _his blood."

"You wouldn't have let him."

"Yeah, Sam, blame yourself for being just six months old when he showed up. That's something we've not tried yet."

Dean's hand disappeared and his leg jerked away from under Sam's head. Before Sam could do more than wonder what Dean was upset about _now_, his big brother was back, sitting on the ground next to him, just close enough for his presence to reassure Sam without stifling him.

"We both know it wasn't just about what the ghost said," Dean said quietly. "You'd already been thinking it, or it would never have been able to get to you the way it did. I should've remembered. I've had an extra year and a half to process the crap that happened before –" Dean broke off, ran a weary hand over his face, and resumed. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I just… Look, I know that for you it's just been – what? A few weeks? – since… Well, since all the crap. I know you need to talk about things, but we can't. It's too big a risk. We don't know what might make holes in the wall."

"But –"

"Come _on_, Sam," Dean implored, and it was the pleading in his voice that made Sam swallow his protest. Dean never begged. "You know how much I – how important you – damn it, do we have to have _another_ chick-flick moment now?"

Dean was begging, actually _begging_, and the sound of it made Sam want to comfort and reassure him as he would a toddler. But that wasn't what Dean needed. The only thing Dean needed to be reassured of was that he was still a big brother, and the only way to do that was to…

"I'm scared to go to sleep," Sam said softly. "The wall doesn't work as well when I'm asleep."

He'd never admitted that before. There had been times when he'd wanted to, when he'd wanted to pour out his troubles and let his big brother make everything better. But he'd tried to be strong, not wanting to burden Dean with his problems when Dean had enough of his own to deal with.

As he was drawn into a hug, enfolded in arms that smelt of gunpowder and drugstore cologne, as he sank into the warmth of _Dean _and _home_, Sam wished he'd said something sooner.

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><p>What did you think? Good? Bad? Please review!<p>

And… Here's hoping we get a nice finale with plenty of hurt Sam and big brother Dean!


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